•  r-  ft  x  E  L  e  Y 
LIBRARY 

UN i  'ERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 


THE  KING'S  MISSIVE, 

AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


. 


-.,/" 


THE    KING'S    MISSIVE, 


AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


BY 


JOHN  GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 


BOSTON: 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLTN  AND  COMPANY, 
ftrcs'*, 

1881. 


LOAN  STACK 


Copyright,  1881, 
BY  JOHN   GREENLEAF  WIIITTIER. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge: 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  0.  Iloughton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


Tim  PRELUDE 7 

THE  KING'S  MISSIVE 

ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 18 

THE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK 

THE  LOST  OCCASION 28 

THE  EMANCIPATION  GROUP 33 

THE  JUBILEE  SINGERS 35 

WITHIN  THE  GATE 37 

THE  KHAN'S  DEVIL 

ABRAM  MORRISON 47 


VOYAGE  or  THE  JHTTIE 


BAYARD  TAYLOR  . 


55 


OUR  AUTOCRAT 

GARRISON 6G 


69 


:V  NAME 73 

THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER 77 


637 


vi  CONTENTS. 

MY  TRUST         .........  83 

TRAILING  ARBUTUS .86 

BY  THEIR  WORKS    ........  88 

THE  WORD 89 

THE  BOOK 90 

REQUIREMENT 91 

HELP 92 

UTTERANCE 93 

INSCRIPTIONS. 

ON  A  SUN-DIAL 95 

ON  A  FOUNTAIN 95 

ORIENTAL  MAXIMS. 

THE  INWARD  JUDGE 97 

LAYING  UP  TREASURE 98 

CONDUCT 99 

NOTES 100 


THE  PRELUDE. 

I  SPEEAD  a  scanty  board  too  late  ; 
The  old-time  guests  for  whom  I  wait 

Come  few  and  slow,  me  thinks,  to-day. 
Ah!  who  could  hear- my  messages 
Across  the  dim  unsounded  seas 

On  which  so  many  have  sailed  away  ! 

Come,  then,  old  friends,  who  linger  yet, 
And  let  us  meet,  as  we  have  met, 

Once  more  beneath  this  low  sunshine ; 
And  grateful  for  the  good  we  've  known, 
The  riddles  solved,  the  ills  outgrown, 

Shake  hands  upon  the  border-line. 


8  THE  PRELUDE. 

The  favor,  asked  too  oft  before, 
From  your  indulgent  ears,  once  more 

I  crave,  and,  if  belated  lays 
To  slower,  feebler  measures  move, 
The  silent  sympathy  of  love 

To  me  is  dearer  now  than  praise. 

And  ye,  O  younger  friends,  for  whom 
My  hearth  and  heart  keep  open  room, 

Come  smiling  through  the  shadows  long, 
Be  with  me  while  the  sun  goes  down, 
And  with  your  cheerful  voices  drown 

The  minor  of  my  even-song. 

For,  equal  through  the  day  and  night, 
The  wise  Eternal  oversight 

And  love  and  power  and  righteous  will 
Remain :  the  law  of  destiny 
The  best  for  each  and  all  must  be, 

And  life  its  promise  shall  fulfil. 


THE  KING'S  MISSIVE.1 

1661. 


UNDER  the  great  hill  sloping  bare 

To  cove  and  meadow  and  Common  lot, 
In  his  council  chamber  and  oaken  chair, 
Sat  the  worshipful  Governor  Endicotfc. 
A  grave,  strong  man,  who  knew  no  peer 
In  the  pilgrim  land,  where  he  ruled  in  feai% 
Of  God,  not  man,  and  for  good  or  ill 
Held  his  trust  with  an  iron  will. 

He  had  shorn  with  his  sword  the  cross  from 

out 
The  flag,  and  cloven  the  May-pole  down, 

i  See  Note. 


10  THE  KING'S  MISSIVE. 

Harried  the  heathen  round  about, 

And  whipped   the   Quakers    from   town   to 

town. 

Earnest  and  honest,  a  man  at  need 
To  burn  like  a  torch  for  his  own  harsh  creed, 
He  kept  with  the  flaming  brand  of  his  zeal 
The  gate  of  the  holy  common  weal. 

His  brow  was  clouded,  his  eye  was  stern, 
With  a  look  of  mingled  sorrow  and  wrath ; 

"  Woe 's  me  !  "  he  murmured :  "  at  every  turn 
The  pestilent  Quakers  are  in  my  path! 

Some  we  have  scourged,  and  banished  some, 

Some  hanged,  more    doomed,   and   still   they 
come, 

Fast  as  the  tide  of  yon  bay  sets  in, 

Sowing  their  heresy's  seed  of  sin. 

"  Did  we  count  on  this  ?     Did  we  leave  behind 
The   graves   of   our   kin,  the   comfort    and 
ease 


THE  KING'S  MISSIVE.  11 

Of  our  English  hearths  and  homes,  to  find 

Troublers  of  Israel  such  as  these? 
Shall    I    spare?      Shall    I    pity    them?      God 

forbid ! 

I  will  do  as  the  prophet  to   A  gag  did  : 
They  come  to  poison  the  wells  of  the  Word, 
I  will  hew  them  in  pieces  before  the  Lord  !  " 

The  door  swung  open,  and  Rawson  the  clerk 

Entered,  and  whispered  under  breath,  — 
"  There  waits  below  for  the  hangman's  work 

A  fellow  banished  on  pain  of  death  — 
Shattuck,  of  Salem,  unhealed  of  the  whip, 
Brought  over  in  Master  Goldsmith's  ship 
At  anchor  here  in  a  Christian  port, 
With  freight  of  the  devil  and  all  his  sort!" 

Twice  and  thrice  on  the  chamber  floor 
Striding  fiercely  from  wall  to  wall, 

"The  Lord  do  so  to  me  and  more," 

The  Governor  cried,  "if  I  hang  not  at  all! 


12  THE  KING'S  MISSIVE. 

Bring  hither  the  Quaker."     Calm,  sedate, 
With  the  look  of  a  man  at  ease  with  fate, 
Into  that  presence  grim  and  dread 
Came  Samuel  Shattuck,  with  hat  on  head. 

"  Off  with  the  knave's  hat !  "     An  angry  hand 
Smote  down   the   offence;   but   the  wearer 

said, 

With  a  quiet  smile,  "  By  the  king's  command 
I  bear  his  message  and  stand  in  his  stead." 
In  the  Governor's  hand  a  missive  he  laid 
With  the  royal  arms  on  its  seal  displayed, 
And  the  proud  man  spake,  as  he  gazed  thereat, 
Uncovering,  "  Give  Mr.  Shattuck  his  hat," 

He  turned  to  the  Quaker,  bowing  low, — 
"  The  king   coinmancleth   your   friends'   re 
lease, 

Doubt  not  he  shall  be  obeyed,  although 
To  his  subjects'  sorrow  and  sin's  increase. 


THE  KING'S  MISSIVE.  13 

What  lie  here  enjoineth,  John  Endicott, 
His  loyal  servant,   questioneth  not. 
You  are  free  !     God  grant  the  spirit  you  own 
May  take  you  from  us  to  parts  unknown." 

So  the  door  of  the  jail  was  open  cast, 

And,,  like  Daniel,  out  of  the  lion's  den 
Tender  youth  and  girlhood  passed, 

With    age-bowed    women    and    gray-locked 

men. 

And  the  voice  of  one  appointed  to  die 
Was  lifted  in  praise  and  thanks  on  high, 
And  the  little  maid  from  New  Netherlands 
Kissed,  in  her  joy,  the  doomed   man's  hands. 

And  one,  whose  call  was  to  minister 

To  the  souls  in  prison,  beside  him  w7ent, 

An  ancient  woman,  bearing  with  her 
The  linen  shroud  for  his  burial  meant. 

For  she,  not  counting  her  owrn  life  dear, 

In  the  streno-th  of  a  love  that  cast  out  fear, 


14  THE  KING'S  MISSIVE. 

Had  watched  and  served  where  her   brethren 

died, 
Like  those  who  waited  the  cross  beside. 

One  moment  they  paused  on  their  way  to  look 
On  the  martyr  graves  by  the  Common  side, 

And  much  scourged  Wharton  of  Salem  took 
His  burden  of  prophecy  up  and  cried: 

"  Rest,  souls  of  the  valiant !     Not  in  vain 

Have  ye  borne  the  Master's  cross  of  pain ; 

Ye  have  fought  the  fight,  ye  are  victors 
crowned, 

With  a  fourfold  chain  ye  have  Satan  bound  ! " 

The  autumn  haze  lay  soft  and  still 

On  wood  and  meadow  and  upland  farms; 

On  the  brow  of  Snow  Hill  the  great  windmill 
Slowly  and  lazily  swung  its  arms ; 

Broad  in  the  sunshine  stretched  away, 

With  its  capes  and  islands,  the  turquoise  bay ; 


THE  KING'S  MISSIVE.  15 

And  over  water  and  dusk  of  pines 
Blue  bills  lifted  their  faint  outlines. 

The  topaz  leaves  of  the  walnut  glowed, 
The  sumach  added  its  crimson  fleck, 

And  double  in  air  and  water  showed 
The  tinted  maples  along  the  Neck; 

Through  frost  flower  clusters  of  pale  star-mist, 

And  gentian  fringes  of  amethyst, 

And  royal  plumes  of  golden-rod, 

The  grazing  cattle  on  Gentry  trod. 

But  as  they  who  see  not,  the  Quakers  saw 

The  world  about  them;    they  only  thought 
With  deep  thanksgiving  and  pious  awe 

On  the  great  deliverance  God  had  wrought. 
Through  lane  and  alley  the  gazing  town 
Noisily  followed  them  up  and  down  ; 
Some  with  scofling  and  brutal  jeer, 
Some  with  pity  and  words  of  cheer. 


16  THE  KING'S  MISSIVE. 

One  brave  voice  rose  above  the  din. 

Upsall,  gray  with  his  length  of  days, 
Cried  from  the  door  of  his  Red  Lion  Inn: 

"Men  of  Boston,  give  God  the  praise! 
No  more  shall  innocent  blood  call  down 
The  bolts  of  wrath  on  your  guilty  town. 
The  freedom  of  worship,  dear  to  you, 
Is  dear  to  all,  and  to  all  is  due. 

"  I  see  the  vision  of  days  to  come, 

When  your  beautiful  City  of  the  Bay 
Shall  be  Christian  liberty's  chosen  home, 

And  none  shall  his  neighbor's  rights  gainsay. 
The  varying  notes  of  worship  shall  blend 
And  as  one  great  prayer  to  God  ascend, 
And  hands  of  mutual  charity  raise 
Walls  of  salvation  and  gates  of  praise." 

So  passed  the  Quakers  through  Boston  town, 
Whose  painful  ministers  sighed  to  see 


THE  KING'S  MISSIVE.  17 

The  walls  of  their  sheep-fold  falling  down, 

And  wolves  of  heresy  prowling  free. 
But  the  years  went  on,  and  brought  no  wrong ; 
With  milder  counsels  the  State  grew  strong, 
As  outward  Letter  and  inward  Light 
Kept  the  balance  of  truth  aright. 

The  Puritan  spirit  perishing  not, 

To  Concord's  yeomen  the  signal  sent, 
And  spake  in  the  voice  of  the  cannon-shot 
That  severed  the  chains  of  a  continent. 
With  its  gentler  mission  of  peace   and  good 
will 

The  thought  of  the  Quaker  is  living  still, 
And  the  freedom  of  soul  he  prophesied 
Is  gospel  and  law  where  the  martyrs  died. 


ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER.2 

THOUGH  flowers  have  perished  at  the  touch 

Of  Frost,  the  early  comer, 
I  hail  the  season  loved  so  much, 

The  good  St.  Martin's  summer. 

O  gracious  morn,  with  rose-red  dawn, 
And  thin  moon  curving  o'  er  it ! 

The  old  year's  darling,  latest  born, 
More  loved  than  all  before  it ! 

How  flamed  the  sunrise  through  the  pines  ! 

How  stretched  the  birchen  shadows, 
Braiding  in  long,  wind-wavered  lines 

The  westward  sloping  meadows  ! 

2  See  Note. 


ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER.  19 

The  sweet  clay,  opening  as  a  flower 

Unfolds  its  petals  tender, 
Renews  for  us  at  noontide's  hour 

The  summer's  tempered  splendor. 

The  birds  are  hushed  ;  alone  the  wind, 
That  through  the  woodland  searches, 

The  red-oak's  lingering  leaves  can  find, 
And  yellow  plumes  of  larches. 

But  still  the  balsam -breathing  pine 

Invites  no  thought  of  sorrow, 
No  hint  of  loss  from  air  like  wine 

The  earth's  content  can  borrow. 

The  summer  and  the  winter  here 

Midway  a  truce  are  holding, 
A-  soft,  consenting  atmosphere 

Their  tents  of  peace  enfolding. 


20  ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER. 

The  silent  woods,  the  lonely  hills, 
Rise  solemn  in  their  gladness  ; 

The  quiet  that  the  valley  fills 
Is  scarcely  joy  or  sadness. 

How  strange  !  The  autumn  yesterday 
In  winter's  grasp  seemed  dying; 

On  whirling  winds  from  skies  of  gray 
The  early  snow  was  flying. 

And  now,  while  over  Nature's  mood 
There  steals  a  soft  relenting, 

I  will  not  mar  the  present  good, 
Forecasting  or  lamenting. 

My  autumn  time  arid  Nature's  hold 

A  dreamy  tryst  together, 
And,  both  grown  old,  about  us  fold 

The  golden-tissued  weather. 


ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER.  21 

I  lean  my  heart  against  the  day 

To  feel  its  bland  caressing; 
I  will  not  let  it  pass  away 

Before  it  leaves  its  blessing. 


God's  angels  come  not  as  of  old 
The  Syrian  shepherds  knew  them  ; 

In  reddening  dawns,  in  sunset  gold, 
And  warm  noon  lights  I  view  them. 

Nor  need  there  is,  in  times  like  this 

When  heaven  to  earth  draws  nearer, 
Of  wing  or  song  as  witnesses 

o  O 

To  make  their  presence  clearer. 

O  stream  of  life,  whose  swifter  flow 

Is  of  the  end  forewarning, 
Methinks  thy  sundown  afterglow' 

Seems  less  of  night  than  morning  ! 


22  ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER. 

Old  cares  grow  light  ;  aside  I  lay 
The  doubts  and  fears  that  troubled ; 

The  quiet  of  the  happy  day 
Within  my  soul  is  doubled. 

That  clouds  must  veil  this  fair  sunshine 

Not  less  a  joy  I  find  it  ; 
Nor  less  yon  warm  horizon  line 

That  winter  lurks  behind  it. 

The  mystery  of  the  untried  days 
I  close  my  eyes  from  reading ; 

His  will  be  done  whose  darkest  ways 
To  light  and  life  are  leading  ! 

Less  drear  the  winter  night  shall  be, 
If  memory  cheer  and  hearten 

Its  heavy  hours  with  thoughts  of  thee, 
Sweet  summer  of  St.  Martin  ! 


THE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK/ 

CHOTA   NAGPOOR. 

WE  have  opened  the  door, 

Once,  twice,  thrice  ! 
We  have  swept  the  floor, 

We  have  boiled  the  rice. 
Come  hither,  come  hither  ! 
Come  from  the  for  lands, 
Come  from  the  star  lands, 

Come  as  before ! 
We  lived  long  together, 
We  loved  one  another; 

Come  back  to  our  life. 

Come  father,  come  mother, 

3  See  Note. 


24     THE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK. 

Come  sister  and   brother, 

Child,  husband,  and  wife, 
For  you  we  are  sighing. 
Come  take  your  old  places, 
Come  look  in  our  faces, 
The  dead  on  the  dying, 
Come  home  ! 

We  have  opened  the  door, 

Once,  twice,  thrice! 
We  have  kindled  the  coals, 

And  we  boil  the  rice 
For  the  feast  of  souls. 

Come  hither,  come  hither ! 
Think  not  we  fear  you, 
Whose  hearts  are  so  near  you. 
Come  tenderly  thought  on, 
Come  all  imforgotten, 
Come  from  the  shadow-lands, 
From  the  dim  meadow-lands 


THE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK.     25 

Wliere  the  pale  grasses   bend 
Low  to  our  siffliincr. 

O  O 

Come  father,  come  mother, 
Come  sister  and   brother, 
Come  husband  and  friend, 
The  dead  to  the  dying, 
Come  home  ! 

We  have  opened  the  door 

You  entered  so  oft ; 
For  the  feast  of  souls 
We  have  kindled  the  coals, 

And  we  boil  the  rice  soft. 
Come  you  who  are  dearest 
To  us  who  are  nearest, 
Come  hither,  come  hither, 
From  out  the  wild  weather; 
The  storm  clouds  are  flying, 
The  peepul  is  sighing ; 

Come  in  from  the  rain. 


26     THE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK. 

Come  father,  come  mother, 
Come  sister  and  brother, 
Come  husband  and  lover, 
Beneath  our  roof -cover. 

Look  on  us  again, 
The  dead  on  the  dying, 
Come  home  ! 

We  have  opened  the  door  ! 
For  the  feast  of  souls 
We  have  kindled  the  coals 

We  may  kindle  no  more  ! 
Snake,  fever,  and  famine, 
The  curse  of  the  Brahmin, 

The  sun  and  the  dew, 
They  burn  us,  they  bite  us, 
They  waste  us  and  smite  us ; 

Our  days  are  but  few  ! 
In  strange  lands  far  yonder 
To  wonder  and  wander 

We  hasten  to  you. 


THE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK.     27 

List  then  to  our  sighing, 
While  yet  we  are  here  : 

Nor  seeing  nor  hearing, 

We  wait  without  fearing, 
To  feel  you  draw  near. 

O  dead  to  the  dying 
Come  home  ! 


THE   LOST  OCCASION. 

SOME  die  too  late  and  some  too  soon, 

At  early  morning,  heat  of  noon, 

Or  the  chill  evening  twilight.     Thou, 

Whom  the  rich  heavens  did  so  endow 

With  eyes  of  power  and  Jove's  own  brow, 

With  all  the  massive  strength  that  fills 

Thy  home-horizon's  granite  hills, 

With  rarest  gifts  of  heart  and  head 

From  manliest  stock  inherited 

New  England's  stateliest  type  of  man, 

In  port  and  speech  Olympian ; 

Whom  no  one  met,  at  first,  but  took 

A  second  awed  and  wondering  look 

(As  turned,  perchance,  the  eyes  of    Greece 

On  Phidias'  unveiled  masterpiece) ; 


THE  LOST  OCCASION.  29 

Whose  words,  in  simplest   home-spun  clad, 

The  Saxon  strength  of  Csedmon's  had, 

With  power  reserved  at  need  to  reach 

The  Roman  forum's  loftiest  speech, 

Sweet  with  persuasion,  eloquent 

In  passion,  cool  in   argument, 

Or,  ponderous,  falling  on  thy  foes 

As  fell  the  Norse  god's  hammer  blows, 

Crushing  as  if  with  Talus'  flail 

Through  Error's  logic-woven  mail, 

And  failing  only  when  they  tried 

The  adamant  of  the  righteous  side,  — 

Thou,  foiled  in  aim  and  hope,  bereaved 

Of  old  friends,  by  the  new  deceived, 

Too  soon  for  us,  too  soon  for  thee, 

Beside  thy  lonely  Northern  sea, 

Where  long  and  low  the  marsh-lands  spread, 

Laid  wearily  down  thy  august  head. 

Thou  shouldst  have  lived  to  feel  below 
Thy  feet  Disunion's  fierce  upthrow,  — 


30  THE  LOST  OCCASION. 

The  late- sprung  mine  that  underlaid 

Thy  sad  concessions  vainly  made. 

Thou  shouldst  have  seen  from  Sumter's  wall 

The  star-flag  of  the  Union  fall, 

And  armed  Rebellion   pressing  on 

The  broken  lines  of  Washington  ! 

No  stronger  voice  than  thine  had  then 

Called  out  the  utmost  might  of  men, 

To  make  the  Union's  charter  free 

And  strengthen  law  by  liberty. 

How  had  that  stern  arbitrament 

To  thy  gray  age  youth's  vigor  lent, 

Shaming  ambition's  paltry  prize 

Before  thy  disillusioned  eyes  ; 

Breaking  the  spell  about  thee  wound 

Like  the  green  withes  that  Samson  bound ; 

Redeeming,  in  one  effort  grand, 

Thyself  and  thy  imperilled  land ! 

Ah,  cruel  fate,  that  closed  to  thee, 

O  sleeper  by  the  Northern  sea, 

The  gates  of  opportunity! 


THE  LOST  OCCASION.  31 

God  fills  the  gaps  of  human  need, 
Each  crisis  brings  its  word  and  deed. 
Wise  men  and  strong  we  did  not  lack; 
But  still,  with  memory  turning  back, 
In  the  dark  hours  we  thought  of  thee, 
And  thy  lone  grave  beside  the  sea. 

Above  that  grave  the  east  winds  blow, 

And  from  the  marsh-lands  drifting  slow 

The  sea-fog  comes,  with  evermore 

The  wave- wash  of  a  lonely  shore, 

And  sea-bird's  melancholy  cry, 

As  Nature  fain  would  typify 

The  sadness  of  a  closing  scene, 

The  loss  of  that  which  should  have  been. 

But,  where  thy  native  mountains  bare 

Their  foreheads  to  diviner  air, 

"Fit  emblem  of  enduring  fame, 

One  lofty  summit  keeps  thy  name. 

For  thee  the  cosmic  forces  did 

The  rearing  of  that   pyramid, 


32  THE  LOST.  OCCASION. 

The  prescient  ages  shaping  with 

Fire,  flood,  and  frost  thy  monolith. 

Sunrise  and  sunset  lay  thereon 

With  hands  of  light  their  benison, 

The  stars  of  midnight  pause  to  set 

Their  jewels  in  its  coronet. 

And  evermore  that  mountain  mass 

Seems  climbing  from  the  shadowy^  pass 

To  light,  as  if  to  manifest 

Thy  nobler  self,  thy  life  at  best ! 


THE   EMANCIPATION  GROUP. 

BOSTON,  1879. 

AMIDST  thy  sacred  effigies 
Of  old  renown  give  place, 

O  city,  Freedom-loved  !  to  his 
Whose  hand  unchained  a  race. 

Take  the  worn  frame,  that  rested  not 
Save  in  a  martyr's  grave  — 

The  care-lined  face,  that  none  forgot, 
Bent  to  the  kneeling  slave. 

Let  man  be  free !  The  mighty  word 
He  spake  was  not  his  own  ; 

An  impulse  from  the  Highest  stirred 
These  chiselled  lips  alone. 


34  THE  EMANCIPATION  GROUP. 

The  cloudy  sign,  the  fiery  guide, 

Along  his  pathway  ran, 
And  Nature,  through  his  voice,  denied 

The  ownership  of  man. 

We  rest  in  peace  where  these  sad  eyes 
Saw  peril,  strife,  and  pain ; 

His  was  the  nation's  sacrifice, 
And  ours  the  priceless  gain. 

O  symbol  of  God's  will  on  earth 

As  it  is  done  above ! 
Bear  witness  to  the  cost  and  worth 

Of  justice  and  of  love. 

Stand  in  thy  place  and  testify 

To  coming  ages  long, 
That  truth  is  stronger  than  a  lie, 

And  righteousness  than  wrong. 


THE  JUBILEE   SINGERS. 

VOICE  of  a  people  suffering  long, 
The  pathos  of  their  mournful  song, 
The  sorrow  of  their  night  of  wrong  ! 

Their  cry  like  that  which  Israel  gave, 
A  prayer  for  one  to  guide  and  save, 
Like  Moses  by  the  Red  Sea's  wave ! 

The  stern  accord  her  timbrel  lent 
To  Miriam's  note  of  triumph  sent 
O'er  Egypt's  sunken  armament ! 

The  tramp  that  startled  camp  and  town, 
And  shook  the  walls  of  Slavery  clown, 
The  spectral  march  of  old  John  Brown! 


36  THE  JUBILEE  SINGERS. 

The  storm  that  swept  through  battle-days, 

The  triumph  after  long  delays, 

The  bondmen  giving  God  the  praise  ! 

Voice  of  a  ransomed  race,  sing  on 
Till  Freedom's  every  right  is  won, 
And  Slavery's  every  wrong  undone  ! 


WITHIN  THE   GATE. 

L.    M.    C. 

WE  sat  together,  last  May-day,  and  talked 
Of  the  dear  friends  who  walked 

Beside  us,  sharers  of  the  hopes  and  fears 
Of  five  and  forty  years 

Since  first  we  met  in  Freedom's  hope  forlorn, 

And  heard  her  battle-horn 
Sound    through    the    valleys   of   the   sleeping 
North, 

Calling  her  children  forth, 

And  youth  pressed  forward  with  hope-lighted 

eyes, 
And  age,  with  forecast  wise 


38  WITHIN  THE   GATE. 

Of  the  long  strife  before  the  triumph  won, 
Girded  his  armor  on. 

Sadly,  as  name  by  name  we  called  the  roll, 
We  heard  the  dead-bells  toll 

For  the  unanswering  many,  and  we  knew 
The  living  were  the  few. 

And  we,  who  waited  our  own  call  before 

The  inevitable  door, 
Listened  and  looked,  as  all  have  done,  to  win 

Some  token  from  within. 

No  sign  we  saw,  we  heard  no  voices  call; 

The  impenetrable  wall 
Cast  down  its  shadow,  like  an  awful  doubt, 

On  all  who  sat  without. 

Of  many  a  hint  of  life  beyond  the  veil, 
And  many  a  ghostly  tale 


WITHIN  THE   GATE.  39 

Wherewith  the  ages  spanned  the  gulf  between 
The  seen  and  the  unseen, 

Seeking  from  omen,  trance,  and  dream  to  gain 

Solace  to  doubtful  pain, 

And  touch,  with  groping  hands,  the  garment 
hem 

Of  truth  sufficing  them, 

We  talked  ;  and,  turning  from  the  sore  unrest 

Of  an  all-baffling  quest, 
We  thought  of  holy  lives  that  from  us  passed 

Hopeful  unto  the  last, 

As  if  they  saw  beyond  the  river  of  death, 

Like  him  of  Nazareth, 
The  many  mansions  of  the  Eternal  days 

Lift  up  their  gates  of  praise. 

And,  hushed  to  silence  by  a  reverent  awe, 
Methoua;rit,  O  friend,  I  saw 


40  WITHIN  THE   GATE. 

In    thy   true    life    of    word,   and    work,   and 

thought 
The  proof  of  all  we  sought. 

Did  we  not  witness  in  the  life  of  thee 

Immortal  prophecy  ? 

And  feel,  when  with  thee,  that  thy  footsteps 
trod 

An  everlasting  road? 

Not  for  brief  days  thy  generous  sympathies, 

Thy  scorn  of  selfish  ease ; 
Not  for  the  poor  prize  of  an  earthly  goal 

Thy  strong  uplift  of  soul. 

Than  thine  was  never  turned  a  fonder  heart 

To  nature  and  to  art 
In  fair-formed  Hellas  in  her  golden  prime, 

Thy  Philothea's  time. 


WITHIN  THE   GATE.  41 

Yet,  loving  beauty,  tliou  couldst  pass  it  by, 

And  for  the  poor  deny 
Thyself,  and  see  thy  fresh,  sweet  flower  of  fame 

Wither  in  blight  and  blame. 

Sharing  His  love  who  holds  in  His  embrace 

The  lowliest  of  our  race, 
Sure  the  Divine  economy  must  be 

Conservative  of  thee ! 

For  truth  must  live  with  truth,  self-sacrifice 

Seek  out  its  great  allies ; 
Good  must  find  good  by  gravitation  sure, 

And  love  with  love  endure. 

And  so,  since  tliou  hast  passed  within  the  gate 

Whereby  awhile  I  wait, 
I  give  blind  grief  and  blinder  sense  the  lie : 

Thou  hast  not  lived  to  die  ! 


THE   KHAN'S   DEVIL. 

THE  Khan  carne  from  Bokhara  town 
To  Hamza,  santon  of  renown. 

"  My  head  is  sick,  my  hands  are  weak ; 
Thy  help,  O  holy  man,  I  seek." 

In  silence  marking  for  a  space 

The  Khan's  red  eyes  and  purple  face, 

Thick  voice,  and  loose,  uncertain  tread, 
"  Thou  hast  a  devil ! "  Hamza  said. 

"  Allah  forbid  !  "   exclaimed  the  Khan. 
"  Rid  me  of  him  at  once,  O  man !  " 


THE  KHAN'S  DEVIL.  43 

"  Nay,"  Hamza  said,  "  no  spell  of  mine 
Can  slay  that  cursed  thing  of  thine. 

"  Leave  feast  and  wine,  go  forth  and  drink 
Water  of  healing  on  the  brink 

"  Where  clear  and  cold  from  mountain  snows, 
The  Nahr  el  Zeben  downward  flows. 

"  Six  moons  remain,  then  come  to  me  ; 
May  Allah's  pity  go  with  thee  !  " 

A  we- struck,  from  feast  and  wine,  the  Khan 
Went  forth  where  Nahr  el  Zeben  ran. 

Roots  were  his  food,  the  desert  dust 
His  bed,  the  water  quenched  his  thirst, 

And  when  the  sixth  moon's  scimetar 
Curved  sharp  above  the  evening  star, 


44  THE  KHAN'S  DEVIL. 

Pie  sought  again  the  santon's  door, 
Not  weak  and  trembling  as  before, 

But  strong  of  limb  and  clear  of  brain ; 
"Behold,"  he  said,  "  the  fiend  is  slain." 

"Nay,"    Hamza     answered,    "starved    and 

drowned, 
The  curst  one  lies  in  death-like  s wound. 

"  But  evil  breaks  the  strongest  gyves, 
And  jins  like  him  have  charmed  lives. 

"  One  beaker  of  the  juice  of  grape 
May  call  him  up  in  living  shape. 

"  When  the  red  wine  of  Badakshan 
Sparkles  for  thee,  beware,  O  Khan  ! 

"  With  water  quench  the  fire  within, 
And  drown  each  day  thy  devilkin !  " 


THE  KHAN'S  DEVIL.  45 

Thenceforth  the  great  Khan  shunned  the  cup 
As  Shitan's  own,  though  offered  up, 

With  laughing  eyes  and  jewelled  hands, 
By  Yarkand's  maids  and  Samarcand's. 

And,  in  the  lofty  vestibule 

Of  the  medress  of  Kaush  Kodul, 

The  students  of  the  holy  law 
A  golden-lettered  tablet  saw, 

With  these  words,  by  a  cunning  hand, 
Graved  on  it  at  the  Khan's  command: 

"In  Allah's  name,  to  him  who  hath 
A  devil,  Khan  el  Hamed  saith, 

"  Wisely  our  Prophet  cursed  the  vine : 
The  fiend  that  loves  the  breath  of  wine 


46  THE  KHAN'S  DEVIL. 

"  No  prayer  can  slay,  no  marabout 
Nor  Meccan  dervis  can  drive  out. 

"  I,  Khan  el  Hamed,  know  the  charm 
That  robs  him  of  his  power  to  harm. 

"  Drown  him,  O  Islam's  child !  the  spell 
To  save  thee  lies  in  tank  and  well !  " 


ABRAM  MORRISON. 

'MiDST  the  men  and  tilings  which  will 
Haunt  an  old  man's  memory  still, 
Drollest,  quaintest  of  them  all, 
With  a  boy's  laugh  I  recall 

Good  old  Abram  Morrison. 

When  the  Grist  and  Rolling  Mill 
Ground  and  rumbled  by  Po  Hill, 
And  the  old  red  school-house  stood 
Midway  in  the  POWOAV'S  flood, 

Here  dwelt  Abram  Morrison. 

From  the  Beach  to  far  beyond 
Bear-Hill,  Lion's  Mouth  and  Pond, 


48  ABEAM  MORRISON. 

Marvellous  to  our  tough  old  stock, 
Chips  o'  the  Anglo-Saxon  block, 
Seemed  the  Celtic  Morrison. 

Mudknock,  Balmawhistle,  all 
Only  knew  the  Yankee  drawl, 
Never  brogue  was  heard  till  when, 
Foremost  of  his  countrymen, 

Hither  came  Friend  Morrison; 

Yankee  born,  of  alien  blood, 
Kin  of  his  had  well  withstood 
Pope  and  King  with  pike  and  ball 
Under  Berry's  leaguered  Avail, 

As  became  the  Morrisons. 

Wandering  down  from  Nutfield  woods 
With  his  household  and  his  goods, 
Never  was  it  clearly  told 
How  within  our  quiet  fold 

Came  to  be  a  Morrison. 


ABEAM  MORRISON.  49 

Once  a  soldier,  blame  him  not 
That  the  Quaker  lie  forgot, 
When,  to  think  of  battles  won, 
And  the  red-coats  on  the  run, 

Laughed  aloud  Friend  Morrison. 

From  gray  Lewis  over  sea 
Bore  his  sires  their  family  tree, 
On  the  rugged  boughs  of  it 
Grafting  Irish  mirth  and  wit, 

And  the  brogue  of  Morrison. 

Half  a  genius,  quick  to  plan, 
Blundering  like  an  Irishman, 
But  with  canny  shrewdness  lent 
By  his  far-off  Scotch  descent, 

Such  was  Abram  Morrison. 

Back  and  forth  to  daily  meals, 
Rode  his  cherished  pig  on  wheels, 

4 


50  ABRAM  MORRISON. 

And  to  all  who  came  to  see: 
"Aisier  for  the  pig  an'  me, 

Sure  it  is,"  said  Morrison. 

Simple-hearted,  boy  o'er-grown, 
With  a  humor  quite  his  own, 
Of  our  sober-stepping  ways, 
Speech  and  look  and  cautious  phrase, 
Slow  to  learn  was  Morrison. 

Much  we  loved  his  stories  told 
Of  a  country  strange  and  old, 
Where  the  fairies  danced  till  dawn, 
And  the  goblin  Leprecaun 

Looked,  we  thought,  like  Morrison. 

Or  wild  tales  of  feud  and  fight, 
Witch  and  troll  and  second  sight 
Whispered  still  where  Stornoway 
Looks  across  its  stormy  bay, 

Once  the  home  of  Morrisons. 


ABEAM  MORRISON.  51 

First  was  he  to  sing  the  praise 
Of  the  Powow's  winding  ways  ; 
And  our  straggling  village  took 
City  grandeur  to  the  look 

Of  its  poet  Morrison. 

All  his  words  have  perished.     Shame 
On  the  saddle-bags  of  Fame, 
That  they  bring  not  to  our  time 
One  poor  couplet  of  the  rhyme 

Made  by  Abram  Morrison  ! 

When,  on  calm  and  fair  First  Days, 
Rattled  down  our  one-horse  chaise 
Through  the  blossomed  apple-boughs 
To  the  old,  brown  meeting-house, 
There  was  Abram  Morrison. 

Underneath  his  hat's  broad  brim 
Peered  the  queer  old  face  of  him ; 


52  ABRAM  MORRISON. 

And  with  Irish  jauntiness 
Swung  the  coat-tails  of  the  dress 
Worn  by  Abram  Morrison. 

Still,  in  memory,  on  his  feet, 
Leaning  o'er  the  elders1  seat, 
Mingling  with  a  solemn  drone, 
Celtic  accents  all  his  own, 

Rises  Abram  Morrison. 

"  Don't,"  he  's  pleading,  "  don't  ye  go, 
Dear  young  friends,  to  sight  and  show ; 
Don't  run  after  elephants, 
Learned  pigs  and  presidents 

And  the  likes  !  "  said  Morrison. 

On  his  well-worn  theme  intent, 
Simple,  child-like,  innocent, 
Heaven  forgive  the  half -checked  smile 
Of  our  careless  boyhood,  while 

Listening  to  Friend  Morrison  ! 


ABRA M  MORRISON.  53 

We  have  learned  in  later  days 
Truth,  may  speak  in  simplest  phrase; 
That  the  man  is  not  the  less 
For  quaint  ways  and  home- spun  dress, 
Thanks  to  Abram  Morrison  ! 

Not  to  pander  nor  to  please 
Come  the  needed  homilies, 
With  no  lofty  argument 
Is  the  fitting  message  sent 

O  O 

Through  such  lips  as  Morrison's. 

Dead  and  gone  !     But  while  its  track 
Powow  keeps  to  Merrimack, 
While  Po  Hill  is  still  on  guard, 
Looking  land  and  ocean  ward, 

They  shall  tell  of  Morrison  ! 

After  half  a  century's  lapse, 
We  are  wiser  now,  perhaps, 


54  ABEAM  MORRISON. 

But  we  miss  our  streets  amid 
Something  which  the  past  has  hid, 
Lost  with  Abram  Morrison. 

Gone  forever  with  the  queer 
Characters  of  that  old  year ! 
Now  the  many  are  as  one ; 
Broken  is  the  mould  that  run 

Men  like  Abram  Morrison. 


VOYAGE  OF  THE  JETTIE.4 

A  SHALLOW  stream,  from  fountains 
Deep  in  the  Sandwich  mountains, 

Ran  lake  ward  Bearcamp  River ; 
And,  between  its  flood-torn  shores, 
Sped  by  sail  or  urged  by  oars 

No  keel  had  vexed  it  ever. 

Alone  the  dead  trees  yielding 

To  the  dull  axe  Time  is  wielding, 

The  shy  mink  and  the   otter, 
And  golden  leaves  and  red, 
By  countless  autumns  shed, 

Had  floated  down  its  water. 

4  See  Note. 


56  VOYAGE   OF  THE  JETTIE. 

From  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann, 
Came  a  skilled  sea-faring  man, 

With  his  dory,  to  the  right  place; 
Over  hill  and  plain  he  brought  her, 
Where  the  boatless  Bearcamp  water 

Comes  winding  down  from  White-Face. 


o 


Quoth  the  skipper :  "  Ere  she  floats  forth, 
I  'm  sure  my  pretty  boat  's  worth 

At  least,  a  name  as  pretty." 
On  her  painted  side  he  wrote  it, 
And  the  flag  that  o'er  her  floated 

Bore  aloft  the  name  of  Jettie. 

On  a  radiant  morn  of  summer, 
Elder  guest  and  latest  comer 

Saw  her  wed  the  Bearcamp  water ; 
Heard  the  name  the  skipper  gave  her, 
And  the  answer  to   the  favor 

From  the  Bay  State's  graceful  daughter. 


VOYAGE  OF  THE  JETTIE.  57 

Then,  a   singer,  richly  gifted, 
Her  charmed  voice  uplifted ; 

And  the  wood-thrush  and  song-sparrow, 
Listened,  dumb  with  envious  pain, 
To  the  clear  and  sweet  refrain 

Whose  notes  they  could  not  borrow. 

Then  the  skipper  plied  his  oar, 
And  from  off  the  shelving  shore, 

Glided  out  the  strange  explorer ; 
Floating  on,  she  knew   not  whither,  — 
The  tawny  sands  beneath  her, 

The  great  hills  watching  o'er  her. 

On,  where  the  stream  flows  quiet 
As  the  meadows  margins  by  it, 

Or  widens  out  to  borrow  a 
New  life  from   that  wild  water, 
The  mountain   giant's  daughter, 

The  pine-besung  Chocorua. 


58  VOYAGE   OF  THE  JETTIE. 

Or,  mid  the  tangling   cumber 
And  pack  of  mountain  lumber 

That   spring  floods  downward  force, 
Over  sunken  snag,  and  bar 
Where  the  grating  shallows  are, 

The  good  boat  held  her  course. 

Under  the  pine-dark  highlands, 
Around  the  vine-hung  islands, 

She  ploughed  her  crooked  furrow; 
And  her  rippling  and  her  lurches 
Scared  the  river  eels  and  perches, 

And  the  musk-rat  in  his  burrow. 

Every  sober  clam  below  her, 
Every  sage  and  grave  pearl-grower, 

Shut  his  rusty  valves  the  tighter; 
Crow  called  to  crow  complaining, 
And  old  tortoises  sat  craning 

Their  leathern  necks  to  sight  her. 


VOYAGE  OF  THE  JETTIE.  59 

So,  to  where  the  still  lake  glasses 
The  misty  mountain  masses 

Rising  dim  and  distant  northward, 
And,  with  faint-drawn  shadow  pictures, 
Low  shores,  and  dead  pine  spectres, 

Blends  the  skyward  and  the  earthward, 

On  she  glided,  overladen, 
With  merry  man  and  maiden 

Sending  back  their  song  and  laughter,  — 
While,  perchance,  a  phantom  crew, 
In  a  ghostly  birch  canoe, 

Paddled  dumb  and  swiftly  after  ! 

And  the  bear  on  Ossipee 
Climbed  the  topmost  crag  to  see 

The  strange  thing  drifting  under  ; 
And,  through  the  haze  of  August, 
Passaconaway  and  Paugus 

Looked  down  in  sleepy  wonder. 


60  VOYAGE  OF  THE  JET  TIE. 

All  the  pines  that  o'er  her  hung 
In  mimic  sea-tones  sung 

The  song  familiar  to  her ; 
And  the  maples  leaned  to  screen  her, 
And  the  meadow-grass  seemed  greener, 

And  the  breeze  more  soft  to  woo  her. 

The  lone  stream  mystery-haunted, 
To  her  the  freedom  granted 

To  scan  its  every  feature, 
Till  new  and  old  were  blended, 
And  round  them  both  extended 

The  loving  arms  of  Nature. 

Of  these  hills  the  little  vessel 
Henceforth  is  part  and  parcel ; 

And  on  Bearcamp  shall  her  log 
Be  kept,  as  if  by  George's 
Or  Grand  Menan,  the  surges 

Tossed  her  skipper  through  the  fog. 


VOYAGE   OF  THE  JET  TIE.  61 

And  I,  who,  half  in  sadness, 
Recall  the  morning  gladness 

Of  life,  at  evening  time, 
By  chance,  onlooking  idly, 
Apart  from  all  so  widely, 

Have  set  her  voyage  to  rhyme. 

Dies  now  the  gay  persistence 
Of  song  and  laugh,  in  distance  ; 

Alone  with  me  remaining 
The  stream,  the  quiet  meadow, 
The  hills  in  shine  and  shadow, 

The  sombre  pines  complaining. 

And,  musing  here,  I  dream 
Of  voyagers  on  a   stream 

From  whence  is  no  returning, 
Under  sealed  orders  going, 
Looking  forward  little  knowing, 

Looking  back  with  idle  yearning. 


62  VOYAGE  OF  THE  JETTIE. 

And  I  pray  that  every  venture 
The  port  of  peace  may  enter, 

That,  safe  from  snag  and  fall 
And  siren-haunted  islet, 
And  rock,  the  Unseen  Pilot 

May  guide  us  one  and  all. 


OUR  AUTOCRAT. 
READ  AT  DR.  HOLMES'  BREAKFAST. 

His  laurels  fresh  from  song  and  lay, 
Romance,  art,  science,  rich  in  all, 

And  young  of  heart,  how  dare  we  say 
We  keep  his  seventieth  festival  ? 

No  sense  is  here  of  loss  or  lack  ; 

Before  his  sweetness  and  his  light 
The  dial  holds  its  shadow  back, 

The  charmM  hours  delay  their  flight. 

His  still  the  keen  analysis 

Of  men  and  moods,  electric  wit, 

Free  play  of  mirth,  and  tenderness 
To  heal  the  slightest  wound  from  it. 


64  OUR  AUTOCRAT. 

And  his  the  pathos  touching  all 
Life's  sins  and  sorrows  and  regrets, 

Its  hopes  and  fears,  its  final  call 
And  rest  beneath  the  violets. 

His  sparkling  surface  scarce   betrays 

The  thoughtful  tide  beneath  it  rolled, — 

The  wisdom  of  the  latter  days, 
And  tender  memories  of  the  old. 

What  shapes  and  fancies,  grave  or  gay, 
Before  us  at  his  bidding  come  ! 

The  Treadmill  tramp,  the  One-Horse  Shay, 
The  dumb  despair  of  Elsie's  doom  ! 

The  tale  of  Avis  and  the  Maid, 

The  plea  for  lips  that  cannot  speak, 

The  -holy  kiss  that  Iris  laid 

On  Little  Boston's  pallid  cheek! 


OUR  AUTOCRAT.  65 

Long  may  lie  live  to  sing  for  us 
His  sweetest  songs  at  evening   time, 

And,  like  his  Chambered  Nautilus, 
To  holier  heights  of  beauty  climb  ! 

Though  now  unnumbered  guests  surround 
The  table  that  he  rules  at  will, 

Its  Autocrat,  however  crowned, 

Is  but  our  friend  and  comrade   still. 

The  world  may  keep  his  honored  name, 
The  wealth  of  all  his  varied  powers  ; 

A  stronger  claim  has  love  than  fame, 
And  he  himself  is  only  ours  ! 
5 


GARRISON. 

THE  storm  and  peril  overpast, 

The  hounding  hatred  shamed  and  still, 

Go,  soul  of  freedom  !    take  at  last 

The  place  which  thou  alone   canst  fill. 

Confirm  the  lesson  taught  of  old  — 
Life  saved  for  self  is  lost,  while  they 

"Who  lose  it  in  His  service  hold 
The  lease  of  God's  eternal  day. 

Not  for  thyself,  but  for  the  slave 

Thy  words  of  thunder  shook  the  world  ; 

No  selfish  griefs  or  hatred  gave 

The    strength    wherewith    thy   bolts    were 
hurled. 


GARRISON.  67 

From  lips  that  Sinai's  trumpet  blew 
We  heard  a  tender  undersong ; 

Thy  very  wrath  from  pity  grew, 

From  love  of  man  thy  hate  of  wrong. 

Now  past  and  present  are  as  one; 

The  life  below  is  life  above ; 
Thy  mortal  years  have  but  begun 

The  immortality  of   love. 

With  somewhat  of  thy  lofty  faith 
We  lay  thy  outworn  garment  by, 

Give  death  but  what  belongs  to  death, 
And  life  the  life  that  cannot  die  ! 

Not  for  a  soul  like  thine  the  calm 
Of  selfish  ease  and  joys  of  sense  ; 

But  duty,  more  than  crown  or  palm, 
Its  own  exceeding  recompense. 


68  GARRISON. 

Go  up  and  on !  thy  day  well  done, 
Its  morning  promise  well  fulfilled, 

Arise  to  triumphs  yet  unwon, 

To  holier  tasks  that  God  has  willed. 

Go,  leave  behind  thee  all  that  mars 
The  work  below  of  man  for  man ; 

With  the  white  legions  of  the  stars 
Do  service  such  as  angels  can. 

Wherever  wrong  shall  right  deny 
Or  suffering  spirits  urge  their  plea, 

Be  thine  a  voice  to  smite  the  lie, 
A  hand  to  set  the  captive  free  ! 


BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

1. 
"AND  where  now,  Bayard,  will  thy  footsteps 

tend?" 

My  sister  asked  our  guest  one  winter's  day. 
Smiling  he  answered  in  the  Friends'  sweet 

way 
Common    to    both  :    "  Wherever    thou    shalt 

send ! 
What  wouldst  thou  have  me  see  for  thee  ?  " 

She  laughed, 
Her    dark    eyes    dancing   in   the  wood-fire's 

glow : 

"  Loffoden  isles,  the  Kilpis,  and  the  low, 
Unsetting  sun  on  Finmark's  fishing-craft." 


70  BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

"  All    these   and   more   I   soon   shall   see  for 

thee !  " 
He   answered    cheerily :    and    he    kept   his 

pledge 
On  Lapland  snows,  the  North  Cape's  windy 

wedge, 
And  Tromso  freezing  in  its  winter  sea. 

He  went    and   came.     But   no   man  knows 

the  track 
Of  his  last  journey,  and  he  comes  not  back  ! 

2. 

He  brought  us  wonders  of  the  new  and  old ; 
We  shared  all  climes  with  him.     The  Arab's 

tent 

To  him  its  story-telling  secret  lent. 
And,  pleased,  we  listened  to  the  tales  he  told. 
His  task,  beguiled  with  songs  that  shall  endure, 
In  manly,  honest  thoroughness  he  wrought ; 
From  humble  home-lays  to  the   heights    of 
thought 


BAYARD  TAYLOR.  71 

Slowly  lie  climbed,  but  every  step  was  sure. 
How,  with  the  generous  pride  that  friendship 

hath, 
We,  who    so    loved    him,    saw  at    last    the 

crown 

Of  civic  honor  on  his  brows  pressed  down, 
Rejoiced,   and    knew   not    that    the  gift  was 

death. 
And  now  for  him,  whose  praise  in  deafened 

ears 

Two   nations   speak,    we   answer    but   with 
tears  ! 

3. 

O  Vale  of  Chester  !   trod  by  him  so  oft, 
Green  as  thy  June   turf   keep  his  memory. 

Let 
Nor  wood,  nor  dell,  nor  storied  stream  for- 

.      get, 
Nor  winds  that  blow7  round  lonely  Cedarcroft ; 


72  BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

Let  the  home  voices  greet  him  in  the  far, 
Strange  land  that  holds  him;  let  the  mes 
sages 

Of  love  pursue  him  o'er  the  chartless  seas 
And  unmapped  vastness  of  his  unknown  star ! 
Love's  language,  heard   beyond   the  loud   dis 
course 

Of  perishable  fame,  in  every  sphere 
Itself  interprets;  and  its  utterance  here 
Somewhere  in  God's  unfolding  universe 

Shall  reach  our  traveller,  softening  the  sur 
prise 
Of  his  rapt  gaze  on  unfamiliar  skies ! 


A   NAME. 

TO    G.    W.    P. 

THE  name  the  Gallic  exile  bore, 
St.  Malo  !  from  tliy  ancient  mart, 

Became  upon  our  Western  shore 
Greenleaf  for  Feuillevert. 

A  name  to  hear  in  soft  accord 
Of  leaves  by  light  winds   overrun, 

Or  read,  upon  the  greening  sward 
Of  May,  in  shade  and  sun. 

The  name  my  infant  ear  first  heard 
Breathed  softly  with  a  mother's  kiss ; 

His  mother's  own,  no  tenderer  word 
My  father  spake  than  this. 


74  A  NAME. 

I 

No  child  have  I  to  bear  it  on ; 

Be  thou  its  keeper;   let  it  take 
From  gifts  well  used  and  duty  done 
New  beauty  for  thy  sake. 

The  fair  ideals  that  outran 

My  halting  footsteps  seek  and  find  — 
The  flawless  symmetry  of  man, 

The  poise  of  heart  and  mind. 

Stand  firmly  where  I  felt  the  sway 
Of  every  wing  that  fancy  flew, 

See  clearly  where  I  groped  my  way, 
Nor  real  from  seeming  knew. 

And  wisely  choose,  and  bravely  hold 
Thy  faith  unswerved  by  cross  or  crown. 

Like  the  stout  Huguenot  of  old 
Whose  name  to  thee  comes  down. 


A  NAME.  75 

As  Marot's  songs  made  glad  the  heart 
Of  that  lone  exile,  haply  mine 

May  in  life's  heavy  hours  impart 
Some  strength  and  hope  to  thine. 

Yet  when  did  Age  transfer  to  Youth 
The  hard-gained  lessons  of  its  day? 

Each  lip  must  learn  the  taste  of  truth, 
Each  foot  must  feel  its  way. 

We  cannot  hold  the  Lands  of  choice 
That  touch  or  shun  life's  fateful  keys  ; 

The  whisper  of  the  inward  voice 
Is  more  than  homilies. 

Dear  boy  !  for  whom  the  flowers  are  born, 
Stars  shine,  and  happy  song-birds  sing, 

What  can  my  evening  give  to  morn, 
My  winter  to  thy  spring! 


76  A  NAME. 

A  life  not  void  of  pure  intent, 

With  small  desert  of  praise  or  blame, 

The  love  I  felt,  the  good  I  meant, 
I  leave  thee  with  my  name. 


THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 

IN  the  minister's  morning  sermon 
He  bad  told  of  the  primal  fall, 

And  how  thenceforth  the  wrath  of  God 
Rested  on  each  and  all. 

And  how,  of  His  will  and  pleasure, 
All  souls,  save  a  chosen  few, 

Were  doomed  to  the  quenchless  burning, 
And  held  in  the  way  thereto. 

Yet  never  by  faith's  unreason 

A  saintlier  soul  was  tried, 
And  never  the  harsh  old  lesson 

A  tenderer  heart  belied. 


78  THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 

And,  after  the  painful  service 
On  that  pleasant  Sabbath  day, 

He  walked  with  his  little  daughter 
Through  the  apple-bloom  of  May. 

Sweet  in  the  fresh  green  meadows 
Sparrow  and  blackbird  sung; 

Above  him  their  tinted  petals 
The  blossoming  orchards  hung. 

Around  on  the  wonderful  glory 
The  minister  looked  and  smiled; 

"How  good  is  the  Lord  who  gives  us 
These  gifts  from  His  hand,  my  child 

"  Behold  in  the  bloom  of  apples 
And  the  violets  in  the  sward 

A  hint  of  the  old,  lost  beauty 
Of  the  Garden  of  the  Lord  I  " 


THE  MINISTERS  DAUGHTER.  79 

Then  up  spake  the  little  maiden, 
Treading  on  snow  and  pink : 

44  O  father !  these  pretty  blossoms 
Are  very  wicked,  I  think. 

"Had  there  been  no  Garden  of  Eden 
There  never  had  been  a  fall; 

And  if  never  a  tree  had  blossomed 
God  would  have  loved  us  all." 

"  Hush,  child !  "  the  father  answered, 

"  By  His  decree  man  fell ; 
His  ways  are  in  clouds  and  darkness, 

But  He  doetli  all  things  well. 

"And  whether  by  His  ordaining 

To  us  cometh.  good  or  ill, 
Joy  or  pain,  or  light  or  shadow, 

We  must  fear  and  love  Him  still." 


80  THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Ob,  I  fear  Him !  "  said  the  daughter, 
"And  I  try  to  love  Him,  too; 

But  I  wish  He  was  good  and  gentle, 
Kind  and  loving  as  you." 

The  minister  groaned  in  spirit 
As  the  tremulous  lips  of  pain 

And  wide,  wet  eyes  uplifted 
Questioned  his  own  in  vain. 

Bowing  his  head  he  pondered 
The  words  of  the  little  one; 

Had  he  erred  in  his  life-long  teaching? 
Had  he  wrong  to  his  Master  done  ? 

To  what  grim  and  dreadful  idol 
Had  he  lent  the  holiest  name? 

Did  his  own  heart,  loving  and  human, 
The  God  of  his  worship  shame? 


THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER.  81 

And  lo !  from  the  bloom  and  greenness, 

From  the  tender  skies  above, 
And  the  face  of  his  little  daughter, 

He  read  a  lesson  of  love. 

No  more  as  the  cloudy  terror 

Of  Sinai's  mount  of  law, 
But  as  Christ  in  the  Syrian  lilies 

The  vision  of  God  he  saw. 

And,  as  when,  in  the  clefts  of  Horeb, 
Of  old  was  His  presence  known, 

The  dread  Ineffable  Glory 
Was  Infinite-  Goodness  alone. 

Thereafter  his  hearers  noted 

In  his  prayers  a  tenderer  strain, 

And  never  the  gospel  of  hatred 
Burned  on  his  lips  again. 

6 


82  THE  MINISTERS  DAUGHTER. 

And  the  scoffing  tongue  was  prayerful, 
And  the  blinded  eyes  found  sight, 

And  hearts,  as  flint  aforetime, 

Grew  soft  in  his  warmth  and  light. 


MY  TRUST. 

A  PICTURE  memory  brings  to  me  : 
I  look  across  the  years  and  see 
Myself  beside  my  mother's  knee. 

I  feel  her  gentle  hand  restrain 

My  selfish  moods,  and  know  again 

A  child's  blind  sense  of  wrong  and  pain. 

But  wiser  now,  a  man  gray  grown, 
My  childhood's  needs  are  better  known, 
My  mother's  chastening  love  I  own. 

Gray  grown,  but  in  our  Father's  sight 
A  child  still  groping  for  the  light 
To  read  His  works  and  ways  aright. 


84  MY  TRUST. 

I  wait,  in  His  good  time  to  see 
That  as  my  mother  dealt  with  me 
So  with  His  children  dealeth  He. 

I  bow  myself  beneath  His  hand: 
That  pain  itself  was  wisely  planned 
I  feel,  and  partly  understand. 

The  joy  that  conies  in  sorrow's  guise, 
The  sweet  pains  of  self-sacrifice, 
I  would  not  have  them  otherwise. 

And  what  were  life  and  death  if  sin 
Knew  not  the  dread  rebuke  within, 
The  pang  of  merciful  discipline? 

Not  with  thy  proud  despair  of  old, 
Crowned  stoic  of  Rome's  noblest  mould 
Pleasure  and  pain  alike  I  hold. 


MY  TRUST.  85 

I  suffer  with  no  vain  pretence 
Of  triumph  over  flesh  and  sense, 
Yet  trust  the  grievous  providence, 

How  dark  soe'er  it  seems,  may  tend, 
By  ways  I  cannot  comprehend, 
To  some  unguessed  benignant  end ; 

That  every  loss  and  lapse  may  gain 
The  clear-aired  heights  by  steps  of  pain, 
And  never  cross  is  borne  in  vain. 


THE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

I  WANDERED  lonely  where  the  pine-trees  made 
Against  the  bitter  East  their  barricade, 

And,  guided  by  its  sweet 
Perfume,  I  found,  within  a  narrow  dell, 
The  trailing  spring  flower  tinted  like  a  shell 

Amid  dry  leaves  and  mosses  at  my  feet. 

From  under  dead  boughs,  for  whose  loss  the 

pines 
Moaned    ceaseless    overhead,    the    blossoming 

vines 

Lifted  their  glad  surprise, 
While  yet  the  bluebird  smoothed  in   leafless 

trees 

His  feathers  ruffled  by  the  chill  sea-breeze, 
And  snow-drifts  lingered  under  April  skies. 


THE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS.  87 

As,  pausing,  o'er  the  lonely  flower  I  bent, 
I  thought  of  lives  thus  lowly,  clogged  and  pent, 

Which  yet  find  room, 

Through  care  and  cumber,  coldness  and  decay, 
To  lend  a  sweetness  to  the  ungenial  day 
And   make    the   sad   earth   happier   for   their 
bloom. 


BY   THEIR  WORKS. 

CALL  him  not  heretic  whose  works  attest 
His  faith  in  goodness  by  no  creed  confessed. 
Whatever  in  love's  name  is  truly  done 
To  free  the  bound  and  lift  the  fallen  one, 
Is  done  to  Christ.     Whoso  in  deed  and  word 
Is  not  against  Him,  labors  for  our  Lord. 
When  He,  who,  sad  and  weary,  longing  sore 
For   love's   sweet   service,    sought   the  sisters' 

door, 

One  saw  the  heavenly,  one  the  human  guest, 
But  who   shall   say  which   loved   the   Master 

best? 


THE  WORD. 

VOICE  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  making  known 
Man  to  himself,  a  witness  swift  and  sure, 
Warning,    approving,    true    and    wise    and 

pure, 

Counsel  and  guidance  that  misleadeth  none  ! 
By  thee  the  mystery  of  life  is  read  ; 

The    picture-writing    of    the    world's    gray 

seers, 

The  myths  and  parables  of  the  primal  years, 
Whose  letter  kills,  by  thee  interpreted 
Take  healthful  meanings  fitted  to  our  needs, 
And  in  the  soul's  vernacular  express 
The  common  law  of  simple  righteousness. 
Hatred  of  cant  and  doubt  of  human  creeds 
May  well  be  felt :  the  unpardonable  sin 
Is  to  deny  the  Word  of  God  within! 


THE  BOOK. 

GALLEEY  of  sacred  pictures  manifold, 
A  minster  rich  in  holy  effigies, 
And  bearing  on  entablature  and  frieze 

The  hieroglyphic  oracles  of  old. 

Along  its  transept  aureoled  martyrs  sit ; 
And  the  low  chancel  side-lights  half  acquaint 
The  eye  with  shrines  of  prophet,  bard,  and 
saint, 

Their  age-dimmed  tablets  traced  in  doubtful 
writ ! 

But  only  when  on  form  and  word  obscure 
Falls  from  above  the  white  supernal  light 
We  read  the  mystic  characters  aright, 

And  life  informs  the  silent  portraiture, 

Until  we  pause  at  last,  awe-held,  before 

The    One   ineffable   Face,    love,    wonder,  and 
adore. 


REQUIREMENT. 

WE  live  by  Faith ;  but  Faith  is  not  the  slave 
Of    text   and    legend.     Reason's    voice    and 

God's, 
Nature's  and  Duty's,  never  are  at  odds. 

What  asks  our  Father  of  His  children,  save 

Justice  and  mercy  and  humility, 
A  reasonable  service  of  good  deeds, 
Pure  living,  tenderness  to  human  needs, 

Reverence   and   trust,  and  prayer  for  light  to 
see 

The  Master's  footprints  in  our  daily  ways? 
No  knotted  scourge  nor  sacrificial  knife, 
But  the  calm  beauty  of  an  ordered  life 

Whose  very  breathing  is  umvorded  praise !  — 

A  life  that  stands  as  all  true  lives  have  stood, 

Firm-rooted  in  the  faith  that  God  is  Good. 


HELP. 

DEEAM  not  O  Soul,  that  easy  is  the  task 
Thus  set  before  thee.     If  it  proves  at  length, 
As  well  it  may,  beyond  thy  natural  strength, 
Faint  not,  despair  not.     As  a  child  may  ask 
A  father,  pray  the  Everlasting  Good 

For   light    and    guidance   midst    the   subtle 

snares 

Of  sin  thick  planted  in  life's  thoroughfares, 
For  spiritual  strength  and  moral  hardihood ; 
Still  listening,  through  the  noise  of  time  and 

sense, 

To  the  still  whisper  of  the  Inward  Word ; 
Bitter  in  blame,  sweet  in  approval  heard, 
Itself  its  own  confirming  evidence : 
To  health  of  soul  a  voice  to  cheer  and  please, 
To  guilt  the  wrath  of  the  Eumenides. 


UTTERANCE. 

BUT  what  avail  inadequate  words  to  reach 
The     innermost     of     Truth?      Who     shall 

essay, 
Blinded   and   weak,  to   point   and  lead  the 

way, 

Or  solve  its  mystery  in  familiar  speech? 
Yet,  if  it  be  that  something  not  thy  own, 
Some  shadow  of  the  Thought  to  which  our 

schemes, 
Creeds,    cult,  and    ritual    are    at   best    but 

dreams, 

Is  even  to  thy  unworthiness  made  known, 
Thou  mayst  not  hide  what  yet  thou  shouldst 

not  dare 
To  utter  lightly,  lest  on  lips  of  thine 


94  UTTERANCE. 

The  real  seem  false,  the  beauty  tmdivine. 
So,  weighing  duty  in  the  scale  of  prayer, 
Give  what  seems   given   thee.     It  may  prove 

a  seed 
Of  goodness  dropped  in  fallow-grounds  of  need. 


INSCRIPTIONS. 

ON  A   SUN-DIAL. 

FOR    DR.    HENRY    I.    BOWDITCH. 

WITH    warning    hand   I   mark    Time's   rapid 

flight 

From  life's  glad  morning  to  its  solemn  night ; 
Yet,  through  the  dear  God's  love,  I  also  show 
There  's  Light  above  me  by  the  Shade  below. 


ON  A   FOUNTAIN. 

FOR    DOROTHEA    L.    DIX. 

STEANGER  and  traveller 
Drink  freely,  and  bestow 

A  kindly  thought  on  her 

Who  bade  this  fountain  flow, 


96  ON  A  FOUNTAIN. 

Yet  hath  no  other  claim 
Than  as  the  minister 

Of  blessing  in  God's  name. 
Drink,  and  in  His  peace  go 


ORIENTAL  MAXIMS. 

PARAPHRASE  OF  SANSCRIT  TRANSLATIONS. 

THE  INWARD  JUDGE. 
FROM  "INSTITUTES  OF  MANU." 

THE  soul  itself  its  awful  witness  is. 
Say  not  in  evil  doing,  "  No  one  sees," 
And  so  offend  the  conscious  One  within, 
Whose  ear  can  hear  the  silences  of  sin 
Ere    they  find   voice,  whose    eyes    unsleeping 

see 
The  secret  motions  of  iniquity. 

Nor  in  thy  folly  say,   "  I  am  alone." 
For,  seated  in  thy  heart,  as  on  a  throne, 

7 


98  LAYING   UP   TREASURE. 

The  ancient  Judge  and  Witness  livetli  still, 
To  note  thy  act  and  thought;  and  as  thy  ill 
Or   good    goes    from    thee,    far    beyond    thy 

reach, 
The  solemn  Doomsman's  seal  is  set  on  each. 


LAYING  UP  TREASURE. 

FROM    THE   "  MAHABHARATA." 

BEFORE  the  Ender  comes,  whose  charioteer 
Is  swift  or  slow  Disease,  lay  up  each  year 
Thy  harvests  of  well-doing,  wealth  that  kings 
Nor   thieves  can   take   away.      When  all   the 

things 
Thou    callest    thine,   goods,  pleasures,    honors 

fall, 
Thou  in  thy  virtue  shalt  survive  them  all. 


CONDUCT.  99 

CONDUCT. 

FHOM    THE    "  MAHlBHARATA." 

HEED  how  thou  lives t.     Do  no  act  by  day 
Which  from   the  night  shall   drive   thy  peace 

a,  way. 
In    months    of    sun    so    live    that    months    of 

rain 

Shall  still  be  happy.  Evermore  restrain 
Evil  and  cherish  good,  so  shall  there  be 
Another  and  a  happier  life  for  thee. 


NOTES. 


1  This  ballad,  originally  written  for  J.  R.  Osgood  &  Co.'s 
Memorial  History  of  Boston,  describes,  with  pardonable  poetic 
license,  a  memorable  incident  in  the  annals  of  the  city.     The 
interview  between  Shattuck  and  the  Governor  took  place,  I 
have  since  learned,  in  the  residence  of  the  latter,  and  not  in 
the  Council  Chamber. 

2  This  name  in  some  parts  of  Europe  is  given  to  the  season 
we  call  Indian  Summer,  in  honor  of  the  good  St.  Martin. 
The  title  of  the  poem  was  suggested  by  the  fact  that  the  day 
it  refers  to  was  the  exact  date  of  the  Saint's  birth,  the  llth  of 
November. 

8  See  Tyler's  Primitive  Culture,  vol.  ii.  pp.  32,  33.  Also 
Journal  of  Asiatic  Society,  vol.  iv.  p.  795. 

4  The  picturesquely  situated  Wayside  Inn  at  West  Ossipee, 
N.  H.,  is  now  in  ashes;  and  to  its  former  guests  these  some 
what  careless  rhymes  may  be  a  not  unwelcome  reminder  of 
pleasant  summers  and  autumns  on  the  banks  of  the  Bearcamp 
and  Chocorua.  To  the  author  himself  they  have  a  special  in 
terest  from  the  fact  that  they  were  written,  or  improvised, 
under  the  eye,  and  for  the  amusement  of  a  beloved  invalid 
friend  whose  last  earthly  sunsets  faded  from  the  mountain 
ranges  of  Ossipee  and  Sandwich. 


UJ 


Qo 

Z.Q 


to 


t 


00 


CM 


Q  JJ! 

Sj   UJ 

O  X 


0 


£     >-  «o 


|    I    y 

§   II 

3  !* 


§ 


„  s- 

•5    E 


A 
R 


o 


oo 
O 

IU 


UJ 


gr> 


C3 

UJ 
Q 


tA 


GENERAL  LIBRARY -U.C.  BERKELEY 


B000313323 


